


Thaw

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5674483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian falls in a freezing river. The Iron Bull fishes him out. Dorian has mixed feelings about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thaw

**Author's Note:**

> Holiday exchange gift for [AniDragon](http://anidragon.tumblr.com/)!

Dorian doesn’t think much of it when the arrow takes him in the arm. It’s most unpleasant, of course, but he has been wounded before, and anyway, there are much more pressing things on his mind. Such as the several dozen Venatori sprinting gleefully toward him over the ice, not to mention the several more dozen who have made the crossing already and are busy gaining a foothold on the snowy bank.

There is an Inquisition camp on this side of the river. The way things are going, that is soon to change.

Dorian puts distance between himself and the melee, moving away from the frozen bridge their mages have summoned towards where the water flows high and fast beside him. The river is as black as the night sky above, and glints in the light of the near-full moon. He reaches up and snaps off the arrow-shaft at his arm, gasping in pain—hasn’t any idea how _some_ people can do that without even a flinch.

Speaking of which, Bull is standing at the place where the bridge meets land, bellowing out some barbaric battle cry or other in that resonant voice of his. He’s neck-deep in Venatori and doesn’t appear particularly bothered by it. The field of snow around him gleams blight with reflected moonlight, and his axe flashes as he swings it through the air. Dorian did try to avoid him for a time—he’s Qunari, after all—but has found himself less repulsed as of late. Qunari, yes, but also thoughtful and clever and, it must be said, considerate at times—if only he weren’t so _crude—_

With a start Dorian finds a brace of warriors dashing toward him, snow spraying up in their wake. _Kaffas._ He was almost asleep when they attacked and hasn’t quite woken up yet. He reaches for the Veil to slow the soldiers down—

—and doesn’t find it.

For a moment he’s stupefied—he’s a mage, of _course_ he can feel the Veil. Only he can’t. He only just manages to raise his staff in time to defend himself. Why can’t he sense it? Where did it go? His blocks are weak and sloppy. He stumbles back, wavering in the shin-deep snow, struggling to keep his balance. What’s wrong with him? The two soldiers hack down at his staff, seemingly content just to push him back. So he retreats, and retreats. Each strike jars his wounded arm, the arrowhead still stuck inside it. Again he reaches for the Veil, straining his senses. It isn’t there. It isn’t—

His foot slips down a sharp incline. The bank.

_Venhedis._

Dorian heaves his body forward as he slides down the steep slope in a desperate attempt not to fall. Then an armored heel smashes into his cheek, and his head whips to the side, his boots slipping in the snow. He wheels, his arms flailing.

The water slaps into his back and closes over him.

It’s not just the cold. The cold is awful, of course, a paradoxical burn that sears his skin through his heavy clothes, the shock of it knocking the breath from his lungs. But the water is _alive_ —the current rushing fast and hard around him, sucking him down. He fights but doesn’t even know where the surface is. Can’t open his eyes—freezing, the water grabbing at him, at his cloak, his robes. The river hurls him into some hard object, sending pain shooting up his back and side. As he slips past it he realizes it might be a rock or a fallen tree, something to hold on to. He twists, groping, but all he gets is the current bending his fingers back.

Air. There’s no air. There’s no Veil. How is he supposed to make it past this? How is he supposed to survive? His body is tossed and battered—

—his face breaking the surface, and he heaves in a great gulping breath—

—frigid water slipping down his throat, and before he can cough he’s dragged down again.

His chest seizes with pain, and he flings a hand out, as if he could grasp the open air and haul himself back up. The current folds and rotates his body. He’s going to die. That’s all there is to it. The terror is overpowering.

But the next object he collides with strikes his head, and his mind goes as black as the seething water.

——

Cold.

Something is warm. Something against his mouth.

He rolls to the side and throws up water. His chest hurts. Hurts. A deep, resonant voice behind him. He throws up some more, hacking and coughing. A hand at his back. He blinks groggily and looks up. A blurry shape looming over him, haloed by the crystalline glow of the moon. He tries to say something and only comes up with more water. A dull ache throbs in his head. Did he hit it? He reaches out with one clumsy hand to touch the looming shape.

Something takes his hand. Something cold and wet.

His eyes drift shut.

——

Jostling.

Pain lances up the back of his skull. He moans and presses a hand gingerly to the spot.

“Careful.” A low rumble. “You split your head open pretty good.”

Dorian squints.

Skeletal trees slip by against the night sky. And just above him, a scarred face lit by the reflected glow of the moon off the snow.

“Bull?” he mumbles.

“Yeah.”

Dorian frowns and tries to figure out what’s happened. He’s being carried, for one, which is rather embarrassing, and he tries to squirm out of Bull’s grasp. “Would you _please_ put me down—“

“Whoa there, big guy.” Bull stops and sets him on his feet, but does not let go.

“Thank you,” Dorian says stiffly, and tries to take a step. It’s very hard. The snow is up to his knees, for one, and also the world seems to be off-balance somehow and spinning at a slow but steady pace—

Bull catches him as he begins to fall. “Like I said, you split your head open pretty good. You might be woozy for a while.”

Dorian shivers. “Bit brisk out here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and those wet clothes aren’t helping. You want to let me carry you? I was looking for shelter.”

Shelter. Dorian still isn’t quite sure what happened, but shelter sounds good. And the only price submitting himself to this small humiliation. “Fine. Yes.”

“All right.”

Bull scoops him up as if he were a sack of feathers rather than flesh-and-bone. Dorian thinks hard, but it only makes his head hurt again. “So…we were attacked. By Venatori.”

“Right. They’ll have overrun the camp by now.”

“And I…”

“Fell in the river.”

That’s right. He was being attacked by two soldiers—

“I saw you go in, so I broke from the field and ran after you. Shucked my armor as I went, and then I jumped in and grabbed you. You were passed out by then.”

Dorian shakes his head (and stops, because that hurts too). “Wait, you—but you were fighting. How did you see me fall in?”

“I had an eye on you.”

“You’ve only got one. What were you using to fight the Venatori?”

Bull chuckles. “Nice to see you still have your tongue even after you got your skull whacked.”

“And you just—abandoned the battle to go after me?”

“Ah, it was time to retreat anyway. We weren’t going to hold that camp, there were way too many of them.”

Dorian is only now discovering all of the various unpleasantries afflicting him at the moment—the headache, of course, but also his arm, wounded somewhere along the way, and pain in his back that he’s afraid might signify a broken rib. And his clothes, heavy and wet and _freezing_ on his skin. He shivers violently against Bull’s chest.

“I dragged you up onto the bank and got you breathing again,” Bull continues. “And then I picked you up and started walking, because we need to get you warm fast.”

“That’s easy,” Dorian mumbles. He extends a hand and reaches for the Veil.

Which isn’t there. Again. Right. _“Kaffas,”_ he whispers.

“Your magic’s gone, isn’t it?” Bull asks.

“Yes, it’s—why can’t I—“

“You were doing okay until you took that arrow. They probably got you with magebane.” An amused grunt. “At least it means they thought you were a real threat. That crap is expensive.”

“Well, that’s flattering, I suppose,” Dorian says distantly. Magebane. He’s heard of it, of course, but never been subjected to its effects.

“Should start to wear off in a few hours.” Bull tacks left.

Dorian peers ahead. A fall of rocks on a hillside, dusted with white. Bull finds a narrow gap and ducks inside. “All right. This’ll have to do.”

The space isn’t very large, and Dorian can hardly see, but he’s not in much of a position to protest. His body is wracked with another shiver, and his teeth chatter. Bull sets him down at the back of the cranny and begins brushing away the layer of snow on the ground—much thinner here under the cover of the rocks. “I’m gonna go look for firewood. You should keep moving. Especially your fingers and toes.” He heads for the entrance.

“Wait—“

Bull stops.

Dorian wraps his arms around himself. “You’re not—you won’t be long?”

“No. Five minutes, if that.”

Dorian gives him a jerky nod and tries to curl his fingers again.

Then Bull is gone, leaving Dorian alone.

He stands and paces as best he can in the small space. His back aches, and he winces—definitely a broken rib. Wonderful. The dizziness pulls at him, but he goes slowly and supports himself on the wall when he has to. His teeth chatter now so hard it almost hurts, and he’s afraid his wet clothes are going to freeze solid in the cold. Once more—although he knows it won’t work—he seeks the Veil, straining his senses as hard as he possibly can. Nothing, still. _Nothing._ And he lost his staff in the river.

Defenseless.

It’s an alien feeling. He’s never been without the Fade at his back from which to summon magic. It’s—horrible, really. Is this what life is like for everyone else all the time? He shivers again.

Movement, a shadow at the gap. Dorian stumbles back, flattening himself against the wall—but it’s only Bull, dragging a few long branches behind him. “Help me break these up,” he says.

So Dorian goes to work, snapping the dead wood into more manageable segments. The arrowhead shifts in his arm, and he grabs at it; but it didn’t go very deep, and it doesn’t hurt as much as he expected. Bull finishes sweeping away the snow and then piles the wood in the back of the cranny with a generous handful of kindling inside it. He pulls something from his belt—flint and steel, sparks flying bright as he strikes them together. When the kindling begins to catch, he leans down and blows lightly. A tiny flame pools there, flickering yellow-orange.

“Okay.” He sits back. “We’ll stay here for a few hours until the sun rises and we can travel without getting lost. And then we head west. Inquisition forces will have pulled back to Bowerbend.”

“A-all right.” Dorian draws in a shaking breath.

Bull nods at him. “Now you need to take your clothes off.”

Dorian stares. “I—I’m sorry?”

“Your clothes are soaked, they’re stealing heat from your body. You need to take them off. I’m sorry—”

“I’m not taking my clothes off in front of you!”

Bull pauses a moment, pressing his lips together. “I was going to say, I’m sorry again for all that ‘conquering’ crap I was talking earlier. I’ll leave that all behind, I promise. But you _really_ shouldn’t be wearing wet clothes right now.”

“What, so instead I should—prance about naked in the depths of winter? I don’t think so!” Dorian hugs himself. “I’ll be perfectly fine with them on, thank you.”

Bull grimaces. “You’ve never seen anyone freeze to death, right? That doesn’t happen in Tevinter. Winters are too mild. I’ve seen it. Believe me, Dorian, I’m trying to help you.”

He shivers, waiting for his teeth to stop chattering before he speaks. “Surely there must be a way to help me that doesn’t involve me stripping naked.”

“There isn’t.”

Dorian folds his arms around himself and doesn’t reply.

Bull sighs. “Look, do you want me to dig out my extra eyepatch and put it over my other eye so I can’t see you? Because I’ll do it, if that’s what it takes. I am _worried about you_. _”_

“What about you?” Dorian mutters sullenly. “You went in the river too, are you also going to undress?”

“Yeah, well, I was going to warn you about that.”

“Andraste guide me.” Dorian presses a hand to his eyes. Seeing no other choice before him, he yields. “Fine, fine, yes, let’s all take our clothes off.”

The wet fabric sticks to him, but he manages to disrobe. The cold air on his skin is just as miserable as the clothing. Wonderful. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and turns.

Bull is also naked. Dorian does his very, _very_ best to keep his eyes from straying downward, focusing instead on the growing flicker of light on Bull’s face, the smell of woodsmoke on the air. Bull begins to lay his clothes out in front of the fire, and Dorian joins him. “I assume my cloak was lost in the river?” he murmurs.

“Kinda. It was pulling you down, so I had to rip it off you. Sorry.”

“I’m alive, which I suppose is more important than that cloak.” He pulls the crumpled folds of his robe apart to spread it for better drying. “Did you really—“

When he breaks off, Bull prompts him. “What?”

Dorian shakes his head. “I was going to ask, ‘did you really leap into a freezing, fast-flowing river to save me,’ but plainly you did. So never mind.”

Bull grins. “Well, I figured it was either we both maybe die or you definitely die, and you know me, I like taking my chances. Anyway, I’m a good swimmer.”

“Well. You have my gratitude.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Then he gestures. “Let me take a look at that wound in your arm.”

Dorian inches closer to the fire and lifts the wound. It oozes sluggishly. Bull inspects it, then pulls a handkerchief—a handkerchief?—from a pouch at his discarded belt. “Okay. This is going to hurt.”

He grasps the stub of shaft still poking from Dorian’s arm and yanks.

It does hurt. Dorian gasps and splays his good hand on the dead leaves. “Oh,” he says weakly.

Bull ties his handkerchief tight around the bleeding hole. His frown deepens. “Those are some nasty bruises.”

Dorian touches his back. “Yes. Well. Not much to be done about that.”

“No, there’s not. At least not until we get to Bowerbend.” He rises. “Dorian?”

Dorian stays crouched where he is, hugging his knees. The fire is starting to catch, and it’s warm on his damp skin. “Yes?”

“You’re probably not going to like this next part.”

“What next part?

“You need to share my body heat.”

Through the stupefaction, Dorian manages to lift one incredulous eyebrow.

“A fire won’t be enough. You were in the river for…I don’t know. Minutes. Your fingers and toes are going white. You don’t have anything dry to wear to keep your own body heat in.” He sighs. “I know it’s probably the last thing you want to do right now, but I’ll feel a lot better about you not getting hurt if you stay close to me.”

Dorian doesn’t really know what to say. He’s expecting the indignation to rise at any moment— _I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing,_ nothing _could ever persuade me to do that, you great Qunari brute—_ but it doesn’t come.

“If it makes you feel any better, Krem and I have slept curled up together a few times.” Bull grins. “The enemy usually doesn’t expect you to be stupid enough to camp out in the wilderness on the coldest nights of the year. Then, of course, when they search the settlement, or the manor, or wherever you’re _supposed_ to be staying, they come up empty.”

“No, it’s—it’s all right. I don’t mind.”

Bull pauses, taken aback. “Oh. Uh—okay.”

Dorian smiles a little. “Although perhaps we can save the curling up together until after my underclothes dry off a bit.”

Bull offers half a smile of his own. “Yeah, all right. You mind if I sit next to you?”

“Go ahead.”

So Bull comes over and sits, planting his hand on the leaves to Dorian’s other side. Dorian leans back against his arm, eager for warmth—winces at the pressure on his bruised ribs.

“How bad is it?” Bull asks.

“Not very. It hurts, that’s all.” The fire is crackling nicely now, and he thinks he can feel his toes again. His fingers are jammed under his arms.

“You ever lost your magic before?”

Dorian shakes his head.

“Sorry. I’m guessing it’s not a whole lot of fun.”

“Oh, you know. I’ve only been deprived of both my greatest weapon and my only defense. A trifle, really.”

“Hm.” Bull nods in thought. “I’m guessing it would be kind of like if I got shrunk down to your size all of a sudden.”

Dorian snorts. “Oh, thank you, that’s very flattering.”

“Hey, I’m used to being the biggest guy in the room.” He grins. “Can you even lift my axe?”

“Probably,” Dorian mutters. “If I tried very hard.”

“But I can’t create fire or ice out of thin air. Or suck people’s souls from their bodies.”

“Technically I don’t _suck_ the soul out, I just sort of ask a wisp to displace it and then detach—“

“Look, no offense,” Bull interrupts. “But necromancy is still creepy as shit. So maybe we could not tell me all the details.”

“Right. Sorry.” Dorian tugs absently at the handkerchief wrapped around his arm. “Do we have to sleep at all? Wouldn’t it be smarter to stay awake until dawn? You know, keep our blood moving?”

“Bowerbend is ten miles due west of the camp,” Bull replies. “Your trip south down the river adds some distance, especially since we need to give the Venatori a wide margin. You want to make that in one go, you need some rest first.”

Dorian sighs. “Must you have an answer for everything? I’m feeling rather superfluous.”

“Hey, we ever get posted in Minrathous, I’ll be leaning on you to keep me alive.”

“A Qunari? In Minrathous? You’d be killed in the streets.”

“That’s why I’d be depending on you.”

“Mm. Right up until you were burned to a crisp in front of the Argent Spire.” That gets a chuckle from Bull. Dorian shrugs one shoulder. “No, I suppose mostly what I’m good for is sucking people’s souls from their bodies. And falling in rivers. Oh, and provoking nasty looks—you should see the glares that follow me around Skyhold—“

“I have.”

Dorian looks up.

Bull’s good humor has seeped away. “You don’t deserve that crap. You work as hard as anyone else here. Or harder.”

Dorian is for a moment lost for words. “I—oh. Well. Thank you.”

He grunts in response.

“Thank you,” Dorian says again. “For fishing me out.”

“You already said that.”

“I know, but I mean it. I didn’t think anyone would dive into a freezing river for me. Especially not—er.” _Kaffas_. Might have said a bit too much there.

“Especially not a Qunari.”

He winces. “It does seem rather…atypical. I’m Tevinter, yet you risked your life for me.”

Bull lets out a long breath. “Yeah, well, call it a lapse in judgement.”

Dorian stiffens a little. “Oh.”

“Crap. No, that’s not what I meant. Saving you was a good decision and I’d do it again.”

“Ah. That’s kind of you to say.” He relaxes against Bull’s arm. His back aches, but he wants the warmth. “Although let’s hope you don’t have to.”

A laugh. “Yeah, I’m freezing my ass off.”

Dorian’s underclothes are not especially substantial and, lying close to the fire, they dry quickly. Bull’s (he does in fact wear them) are much larger, but he deems them “good enough” and pulls them up, then stacks more wood on the fire. “Okay.” He rises. “That should burn for a while.”

Dorian has just discovered his underclothes are pleasantly warm, having been so close to the flames. “So, er…how shall we do this?”

Bull nods at the rear of the cranny. “Lie on your side.”

Dorian lies down, careful of his injuries, and edges closer to the fire. He had expected resignation but instead finds himself nervous for some reason. Bull disappears behind him.

And then a solid bulk at his back, an arm wrapping around his chest and pulling him closer. It’s very intimate. Dorian’s breath catches in his throat.

“Crap.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Horns. Hard to lie on my side.”

“Oh. Should I—“

“Wait, hang on, let me try—“

Bull’s body presses suddenly against Dorian, leaning over him and forcing him to hunch in on himself. The enormous arm caging him in braces against the leaves.

“That okay?” Bull’s lips are right at his ear. “You getting crushed or anything?”

Dorian certainly feels a bit squashed, although— “No,” he says. “It’s fine.”

“Okay. You should get your toes between my thighs.”

“I should _what?”_

“You wanna lose ‘em?”

Dorian exhales, folds his legs up, and sticks his toes between Bull’s thighs. Which are very firm—as one would expect, really. It’s much warmer than leaving himself exposed in the open air. “What about yours?”

“I’m Qunari. Our blood runs hot.”

“Oh, Maker,” Dorian mutters.

Bull chuckles. “Sorry, sorry. I really didn’t mean it like that. Try and get some sleep.”

Dorian shuts his eyes. The heat of the fire soaks into his face, and Bull’s scar-gouged body is close against his back. A bit squashed, yes. But he feels warm. And—despite where they are and what happened to him—safe.

He has one arm folded up under his head for a pillow. The other is pulled into his chest, and he shifts it a little until the back of his hand is resting on Bull’s thumb. One more point of contact.

He remembers how in the river he thought he was going to die. One of several things he’s gotten wrong today. Right now he’s almost completely sure he’s going to live, and he finds himself rather looking forward to what happens next.

——

When Dorian wakes again the fire is nearly out.

The river. Yes. And that cranny in the rock. And—

—the Iron Bull.

Dorian lies just where he is. Bull breathes quiet and even against his hair. He’s surrounded still by Bull’s sheer bulk, the broad chest at his back, the thick arm wrapped around him—

Dorian starts a little.

Bull wakes immediately. “Hm? What? What is it?”

“Good morning.”

“Morning.”

“You appear to be holding my hand.”

“Oh. Yeah, I didn’t want your fingers to freeze.”

“Ah. I see.”

The warm breath disappears from his hair. “It’s starting to get light. You feel like heading out?”

Dorian would very much like to stay here instead, subsumed by Bull’s warm body. But he figures they’ll have to forge out into the frozen forest sooner or later. So he groans and starts struggling out of Bull’s grasp.

His robes are sort of dry, which is much better than how they were when he took them off. His boots are less dry. That doesn’t bode well for his toes, which are still attached, thanks to…Bull’s thighs. Right. But perhaps…

Dorian cups his hands and reaches for the Veil.

A glimmer of it, at the edge of his awareness. It used to flood his senses, the Fade rippling and seething against it. Now it’s little more than a muted ebb, hardly enough to draw on. He tries as best he can—and a tiny pool of flame spreads over his palm.

“Looks like you’re back,” Bull remarks, clothed again, although his armor is gone—discarded, he said, before the daring rescue.

Dorian grimaces. “Hardly.” He’s still _weak,_ so very weak. With a great force of will he thins the Veil at his boots, just a little, summoning heat into the leather and damp padding.

Bull pokes his head outside the gap in the rock. “It’s snowing.”

Dorian moans. “I _hate_ this accursed country.”

“You want me to carry you again?”

He looks up. Bull’s grinning. Dorian rubs his forehead. “No, thank you, I am quite capable of walking by myself.”

They wade out into the woods.

It is indeed snowing, albeit lightly, without any wind to blow it into Dorian’s face. It could be worse, he supposes. Tiny flakes gather on his sleeves and melt on his cheeks. He’s sure his hair will be topped by a fine coating of white before long.

Bull goes ahead, and he glances over his shoulder. “How are you doing?”

Dorian trudges forward through the half-dark. “Not dizzy anymore.”

“How about your back, and the arm?”

“Manageable, I think. Although I’m afraid your handkerchief will have to be discarded after this. It’s a bit bloodied.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it.”

“I didn’t think you were the handkerchief type, to be honest.”

Bull shrugs. “It’s not for me. I carry them in case someone else needs one. I’m pretty big, I have plenty of extra space at my belt.”

He is quite big. Without the armor his entire upper body is bared, and he’s easily twice as wide as Dorian, his arms rippling with muscle but a definite softness sitting around his hips, bunching gently above his waistband…

Dorian takes a deep breath and lets it out. Surely he wasn’t just _ogling_ the Iron Bull. That would be impossible. Bull is, after all, Qunari.

Yet his body against Dorian’s back felt like that of any other man, albeit a very large man. And he did fling himself into a river in the depths of winter to save a Tevinter mage’s life. Maybe not so Qunari, then? Dorian rubs his eyes. Or maybe it doesn’t matter.

Bull goes forward, looking up now and then at the lightening sky to keep his bearings. Despite his half-nakedness, he seems very at ease in the wintry air, a glaze of snowflakes coating the tops of his horns. Dorian’s clothes are no longer soaking wet, but they still aren’t made for these conditions—that was why he had the cloak, now lost in the river. And even with the heat he’s generating from all this trudging, he still shivers. It’s all a bit unfair. “Didn’t you grow up in Par Vollen? And Seheron?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Those places don’t have winters. Yet here you are strolling blithely through the snow without any clothes on.”

He shrugs. “I mean, I feel the cold. I don’t _like_ it. I just ignore it.”

“That easy for you, is it?”

“Just had a lot of practice.”

“Mm, of course. You must preserve your public face—Maker forbid the biggest, toughest Qunari south of Seheron be seen _shivering_ —“

“No, it’s not that. I got a lot of guys under me. We go through some crap, a blizzard, a bad fight, anything like that, they’re gonna be having a tough time. So there’s gotta be someone who’s doing okay, and can take care of everyone else. Normally that’s me and Krem, and when Krem’s too tired for it it’s just me.” Bull ducks under a low-hanging branch. “That’s why I’m good at ignoring the cold.”

Dorian slips under the same branch without even having to bend his knees. “You—wait. So right now, you’re doing it because…”

“Because you fell in a river and almost drowned.”

The entire situation approaches impossibility. The great oxman brute, revealed in intimate moments to have a heart of gold—it sounds like some frightful romance serial written by Varric’s ilk—

Dorian shakes himself firmly. He is no starry-eyed waif, and will not be taken in so easily by a Qunari’s simpering words.

“Nice to be the toughest guy in the room, though.” Bull grins over his shoulder. “Can’t say I don’t enjoy the reputation.”

“As reputations go, it certainly isn’t a bad one,” Dorian mutters. Better than _that Tevinter blood-mage snake._

The sky brightens as they forge ahead, the wool-grey clouds limned with struggling sunlight. Flakes descend still, gathering on Dorian’s sleeves and shoulders. The snow is drifted here, and will be ankle-deep in spots only to rise to his knees two steps later. His boots are soaked again, but at least his feet won’t freeze—he keeps pulling on that little thread from the Fade, that sputtering flicker of heat that warms his toes. Bull blazes a path as best he can, Dorian walking in his enormous footsteps.

He’s very lucky, he reflects. Not to still be alive—that wasn’t luck. The luck was in somehow having fallen under the wing of possibly the strangest Qunari Par Vollen has ever produced.

Bull leads him up a long, steep slope. Dorian is forced to grasp onto the springy saplings that flank him rather than keeping his hands jammed into his armpits, where they’d be _much_ warmer. Still, cold hands are a small price to pay to avoid slipping and taking a long, inglorious tumble back down to the bottom of the hill. Bull, a couple of yards ahead, also climbs with care. A fact for which Dorian is quite grateful—if _he_ slipped, the resulting journey down the slope would no doubt catch Dorian up and send them both snowballing away with only a few flimsy saplings to slow them. Fortunately for both of them, Bull makes the top of the rise without incident and stops there, scanning as he waits—

Dorian sees his body tense a second before the crack splits the air.

By the time the wave of force reaches him it is much weaker, and he only stumbles, steadying himself against a thin trunk. But Bull’s head snaps back, and he reels. A second _crack_ that throws him to one side, and he thuds into a snowdrift on his shoulder.

Dorian stands frozen. Attacked. They’re being attacked. And he without magic, _useless—_

Bull pushes himself up, finds Dorian with his one remaining eye. _“Hide,”_ he snarls.

Dorian plunges back down the stomped-down path to find a place to conceal himself.

He has to stay in Bull’s footsteps or he’ll leave a trail of his own. But there’s a hunk of rock just off to one side, and he ducks behind it. A third _crack,_ deafening. He peers out and spots Bull crawling over the crest of the hill. _Venhedis._ Force magic. Detonations in the air—set off just next to Bull’s head, if the blood leaking from his ear is any indication. He shouldn’t even be conscious anymore—should be dead—but his skull is thicker than that mage bargained for, apparently.

Not that it matters. He’s dazed already, and the mage untouched. This battle will not last long. And Dorian without his _damned_ magic—good for nothing besides provoking nasty looks, falling in rivers—

Another concussion and Bull falls limp, collapsing into the snow.

Dorian bursts from cover and starts climbing.

Bull saved his life at great personal risk. That isn’t a debt Dorian can just abandon. _Well, I figured it was either we both maybe die or you definitely die._ That was what he said. The situation here not all that dissimilar, although the “maybe” is a bit in question. Dorian clambers upward, grabbing nearby saplings and hauling himself up the slope.

He makes the crest. Bull twitches, his hand drifting aimlessly. Blood dots the snow under his head. Dorian spots the mage twenty yards away. She’s Venatori, her white robes nearly blending in to the landscape. Alone—perhaps gone for firewood or to scout the land. She’s trudging towards them through the snowdrifts, although she halts at Dorian’s appearance. Spells are stronger when cast closer to oneself. She advances to strike the final blow. Dorian could try to counter her, if his connection to the Fade were strong enough to summon anything more than a flicker of heat for his toes. But it isn’t.

The mage approaches. No weapon, no magic. All he has left is himself.

Dorian throws his body over Bull’s head.

He waits for the explosion, the force slamming into his back and crushing his organs to pulp. It might give Bull enough time to get to the mage and kill her and save himself. He wouldn’t even be here if Dorian hadn’t fallen in the damned river—

Shifting under him. A growled “Damn it, Dorian!”

Then he is being grabbed and heaved and wrapped up (much as he was last night, he thinks wildly, Bull’s enormous body at his back, powerful arms around him) and he only has time to take a surprised breath before there’s a thunderclap _boom_ and he and Bull are lifted into the air.

They don’t go very far before crashing to ground. Bull’s arms have gone limp—he must have been knocked out—so Dorian holds on for dear life as they roll and slide down the slope, tumbling over rocks and fallen branches. At last, with a _thump_ that knocks from him what little air is left in his lungs after that explosion, they come to a stop in a tall drift of snow.

Dorian’s head is spinning so he shuts his eyes as he tries to think. The mage is still coming for them. Bull is unconscious and wouldn’t be much help anyway. Meanwhile, his magic has not miraculously returned in the twenty seconds since he last checked. So he’s still useless. Good for provoking nasty looks, falling in rivers—

—sucking people’s souls out of their bodies.

Right. If he can’t defeat this mage, he’ll just have to ask someone else to do it.

Not much time. She’ll be coming down to check and make sure they’re both dead. He’s a little surprised he’s still in one piece; his sudden appearance must have startled her into casting early, before she was close enough for a killing blow. Dorian cracks his eyes open. He’s buried in the snow, invisible for the moment.

He plunges his hand deep into the drift.

The Veil is there, barely, _barely,_ and he just snags it with the tips of his fingers, rakes it sideways, and pulls it thin—not very thin, but it’s enough to reach through. He searches, frantic, pleading for help, praying to the Maker that he attracts some flicker of curiosity—

A wisp approaches, drifting closer.

Communicating with it is impossible, like trying to speak through molasses. But Dorian forces the request out along the frayed lines of his Fade-sense, the sheer effort sending a lancing pain up the back of his skull, an ache that grows from the place where he split his head open in the river last night. Still he tries. _Help me. Stop her. Save us._

In his blurred vision there’s a faint blue-purple glow against the snow. It rises and disappears.

A second later there’s a startled yell. Dorian erupts out of the Bull’s arms and grabs at the air.

Not the air, particularly, but the Veil—so insubstantial, it used to fold thickly between his fingers, now the merest brush of gossamer on his skin. But he has it, and the mage stands high on the slope, clutching at a sapling as the wisp wriggles its way into her body.

In his Fade-sense he feels her spirit coming loose, drifting from its moorings, displaced some by the wisp but not enough. The rest is up to him. The Veil coats his palm tenuously, and he guides it with utmost care, wrapping it around her spirit, digging at the tethers that still hold her to her body and eroding them to nothing. She slumps against the tree, still clinging to its thin trunk. Dorian keeps at his work, his Fade-sense taxed to its limit, his head throbbing with such pain he’s sure it’s about to blind him. But he cannot stop. Bull will die if he doesn’t finish this. They both will.

The wisp settles deeper into its new container. The straining threads that hold the woman to her body pull yet more taut. Dorian claws at them, willing them to dissolve. Almost there. Almost done.

The mage’s spirit breaks free. The gravity of the Fade is too much for it to overcome alone, and it seeps through the Veil, gone.

Dorian slumps, gasping, and clutches at his head. Maker, that _hurts._ His vision is filled with splotches in black and white. He swallows and waits for the pain to leave him, or at least to abate just a little. Just enough for him to stand up again.

The wisp wanders over. The Fade must be tugging at it too, and rare is the wisp that has the desire to resist that pull. But it visits him now, dipping into his chest. The throbbing in his head begins to diminish, dulling out to an unpleasant buzz rather than the crushing waves that afflicted him before. “I don’t suppose you can bring my magic back?” he asks weakly.

No response, nor any change in his Fade-sense. It was a long shot, he supposes. The attention to his headache was more than he expected. The blue-purple glow vanishes then, the wisp gone back across the Veil.

Bull.

Dorian turns and crawls back to where Bull’s enormous body lies limp and quiet in the snow. A trickle of red from his ear. _Kaffas._ Not over yet. Dorian once again reaches for the Veil, smoothing it over Bull’s shaved skull, searching for any bleeding inside his head.

No blood, only some bruising and a ruptured eardrum. His hearing may suffer, but his sharp wit should remain intact. More bruises at his back, but again no serious injuries; Qunari bones are stronger than human ones, and their muscles thicker. His vital organs were well protected from the blast. Dorian takes a long, slow breath. The headache is back. He tries to shake Bull’s shoulder, but his mountainous body does not move. Dorian applies a little more force the second time. “Bull? Can you hear me?”

A grunt. Bull’s eyes flicker open. “Ow.”

Dorian knew he would be all right, yet hearing his voice triggers a flood of relief. “Good afternoon.”

Bull sits straight up suddenly and struggles to his feet. “What happened to her? Did she—oh.”

Dorian gazes up at the corpse lying beneath a branch bowed low, laden with snow. “I dispatched her.”

“Yeah, right after you tried to get yourself killed.”

Dorian meets Bull’s disapproving glare with indignation. “I was not _trying to get myself killed!_ I was protecting you!”

Bull slaps a hand onto his bare chest. “I can take hits. You can’t.”

“Listen, I was just—I don’t know, trying to help!” Dorian flings his arms up. “My magic still hasn’t returned, I only just managed to kill her—I thought shielding you was the best thing I could do! Then at least you might survive and finish her off yourself! Was it any more foolish than flinging oneself into a fast-flowing river in the depths of winter to save one soggy mage?”

Bull’s displeasure fades fast into chagrin. He’s quiet for a moment. “Kind of. But I get it. Thanks. Sorry for arguing.”

Dorian stares back, confused. He had been expecting a fight. “Oh. Er—you’re welcome.”

“Hey, how’d you kill her, anyway? You must have done it quick, you don’t look hurt.”

“Oh, you know.” Dorian shrugs nonchalantly. “Necromancy. You wouldn’t understand.”

Bull grins. “Damn right I wouldn’t.”

Dorian finds he’s smiling too, although there’s little reason to do so—they’re still stuck several miles from civilization in the middle of the woods with all this awful snow on the ground, and they’ve both just almost died. But he’s smiling.

“Hang on a minute.” Bull trudges up the slope to the mage’s corpse. Dorian follows, willing his head to stop hurting.

Bull holds up the mage’s cloak. “Look what I found!”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Dorian moans. “I’ll take that.”

Bull raises an eyebrow. “You already got clothes. I’m walking around with my tits out here.”

Dorian wilts, grasping a tree for support. _“Please._ I can hardly abide these winters with appropriate seasonal attire, let alone in robes that are still _rather_ damp—“

Bull laughs and holds out the cloak. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. It’s all yours.”

Dorian snatches it away and wraps it around himself with haste.

The journey remains arduous, but now that the heat he’s working up by walking is captured by the cloak instead of being sucked away into the frigid air, Dorian finds himself almost happy. The sun has peaked in the sky, and as it descends he discovers that the Fade is trickling back into his senses, so he stokes the warmth in his boots, reaches out and lends some to Bull as well. Bull halts in his tracks. “Whoa. That you?”

“Nice, isn’t it?” Dorian says.

“Oh yeah.”

They go on, Bull still stomping a trail for Dorian. The snow falls in starts and stops and finally ceases altogether as the sunset wells before them in the west. Then Bull pauses at the top of a rise and calls over his shoulder, “Hey, Dorian. Get up here.”

So Dorian staggers up to join him on the crest of the hill. For a moment he only leans against a tree, panting; then he peers into the distance. There, past another half-mile of forest—open space. The snow-covered wheat fields outside Bowerbend.

Dorian grabs Bull’s arm. “We did it! We made it!”

“Not quite, big guy. I pulled us south after we ran into that mage, we gotta head back north for a while.”

“Please say it isn’t too far. I’m about to starve to death.”

“Might be another hour. Sorry.”

“Oh, you villain. You got me all excited.”

Bull’s lips curl in a half-grin. “I tend to have that effect on people.”

Dorian cocks an eyebrow. “What? Getting their hopes up, only to leave them terribly disappointed?”

Bull guffaws and rests a hand over his heart. “That hurts, Dorian.”

“Hm,” Dorian strides ahead. “Let’s move on. It’ll be dark soon.”

Dusk settles over the snowy landscape. They stay just inside the treeline, and before long Dorian spots the lights of Bowerbend glowing in the distance. The sight spurs him on, and he catches up with Bull, the two of them walking together to the north.

The town is indeed bustling with Inquisition activity. One soldier dashes past in front of them only to slide to a halt and stare. “You—you—“

“Yeah, we’re alive,” Bull affirms. “Is the Seeker around anywhere? I’m gonna need her to requisition me some food.”

——

Dorian slouches in the chair, his feet propped up in front of the fire. “I’m going to sleep for a hundred years.”

Bull wipes his mouth with the doily from an empty bread basket. “I’d offer to wake you up but I might still be eating by then.”

Dorian probes the arrow-wound in his arm absently. It’s been itching since the healer left a few moments ago, and it’ll probably continue to do so, especially if—

“Don’t scratch it.” Bull motions over the table with the leg of mutton he’s holding. “Makes it itch more.”

Dorian makes a noise of frustration. “I know, I just—oh, never mind.” He snatches up one of the sweetrolls and jams it in his mouth.

For a few moments the only sounds are half-starved chewing and the crackle of flames, with an occasional shout from outside. Dorian is quiet, flexing his bare toes. Then: “Bull.”

“Hm?”

“I think I’ve been unfair to you.”

Bull pauses and sets down the leg of mutton.

“Before all this, I was perfectly happy to think you were…” Dorian waves a hand. “Large, and crude, and shallow of character. I never bothered to find out any more.”

“Ah, it’s kind of my own fault.” Bull rests his chin on his hand. “I know what people think when they see me. Mostly I just let them believe what they want to.”

Dorian nods. “When really you’re the sort of man who carries a handkerchief around in your pocket.”

“Two handkerchiefs,” Bull notes.

Dorian takes a sip of wine. “You should try showing yourself around a bit. There’s a remarkable person in there under that beast you pretend to be.”

Bull grins. “Aww, you do like me after all.”

Dorian raises an affronted eyebrow. “I—I _beg_ your pardon? I will thank you not to mistake one compliment for an expression of fondness—“

“Yeah, yeah. Want to pass me one of those sweetrolls?”

Dorian pushes the plate across the table, praying to the Maker that heat in his cheeks is just the warmth of the fire and not a damned blush.

“Hey, I’m glad you’re okay.”

Dorian glances up. “Oh. Well, it’s all thanks to you, isn’t it?”

Bull shrugs. “Just didn’t look so good there for a while, is all. So I’m glad you made it.”

“Mm. Listen, heartwarming as this all is, let’s never do it again. I could have lost my toes. I need those.”

“Yeah. Less snow next time.”

Dorian likes the sound of less snow. And he likes the sound of next time too.


End file.
